


A Key to Every Door

by dreamlittleyo, rivers_bend



Series: A Key to Every Door [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cabin Fic, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, Schmoop, Seduction, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-25
Updated: 2011-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 15:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean lets Sam get behind the wheel, he ends up taking them somewhere Dean never suspected they would go.<br/></p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div>
            </blockquote>





	A Key to Every Door

"You think about fucking me," says Dean, and damned if it's not the most screwed up thing he's ever said to his brother. All the worse for the fact that Sam is clearly not kidding around. This is not the conversation Dean thought they were having. Not that he's too clear anymore on what that conversation _was_ , given this new goddamn revelation that Dean can't quite get his head around.

He forces his shoulders into a casual shrug and gives Sam the easiest look he can as he says, "So what? Okay, yeah, you're my brother and that's a little sketchy. A _lot_ sketchy. But they're just _thoughts_ , man. People think weird shit all the time." Dean thinks he might just get the conversation back on track. "And that's not what I meant—"

"They're not just thoughts, Dean," Sam interrupts, voice bitten off in frustration, and knuckles clenched white from his grip on the steering wheel.

It's not what his brother is supposed to say.

"Of course they are," Dean insists. Thoughts. Just thoughts. Can't be anything else.

"No." Sam's face echoes his defiance, glint of steel in his eyes just visible under sweat-soaked bangs. It's too damn hot for this conversation, any breeze through the windows no competition for the baking sun, and all Dean wants is for Sam to shut up. Sam's busy ignoring the memo, though. Is still goddamn _talking_ even though Dean doesn't want to hear it. "It's not just a 'thought' when I've been jerking off to it for the better part of a year."

"Stop it." Dean's face feels like fire. "Stop looking at me like that."

"I've been looking at you this way for _months_ , dude," says Sam, but he puts his eyes back on the road. "And you've been careful as hell not to notice. What's wrong, can't fake it anymore?"

"I _wasn't_ faking it. Jesus, Sam, you think I make it a hobby wondering if my little brother is checking me out?"

"Maybe you should."

And that's finally it. That's well past enough, the camel's back broken miles back, and Dean's shoulders slump.

"Screw you, man," he says. "I'm too tired for this shit. Wake me when you're done being an asshole."

Not that Dean really plans to _sleep_ , because Sam is like 18, maybe 20 inches away, and his reach has got to be twice that, and he just admitted that he wants to fuck his brother. His brother who would be one Dean Winchester, who at the moment is looking at 75 mph road rash between him and escape from those _thoughts_ Sam's been having. Pretending to sleep though, that's a great plan, because it just might make Sam shut up. Besides, with his eyes closed, Dean can't see the looks Sam keeps giving him.

As it turns out, when you've been hunted by a Wendigo, nearly drowned by angry spirits, been scratched, gouged, choked, mauled, thrown into walls and god knows what else by all sorts of things most people never even consider, the possibility of your brother brushing a hand against you while you sleep kind of pales into insignificance. Before he has time to wonder again what the hell Sam is thinking, Dean is _out_.

 

-||-||-||-

When he wakes up, there's a decidedly alpine freshness to the air, and the view is more mountains than plains. "How the wha' huh?" Dean enquires eloquently.

It's only when Sam looks at him with a fond little smile that Dean remembers all that _awkward_ he fell asleep to avoid.

Dean is a master avoider though, and there is more than one way to skin a werecat. Sleep works, but some non-incest based conversation might work too. And, ok, yeah, still really awkward.

Dean takes a deep breath. "Where's Oklahoma?"

"We're in Colorado," Sam answers.

"What happened to the hunt in Indiana?" And see? This is totally going well. If you ignore the way Sam's driving in the opposite direction from the one they agreed on. Dean ignores how that can totally work as a metaphor.

"There's something I want to show you," Sam says, then looks at him.

Dean can't read a single helpful clue in his brother's expression, and in the next heartbeat Sam's eyes are back on the road where they belong. The topic seems dropped, for the moment at least. Now the question is how long it'll stay that way.

That and where the hell is Sam driving them to?

It's not fair, being in the dark like this, and Dean's pulse thumps frantic in his chest. Sleep didn't do anything but postpone his own inevitable freakout, and he forces his face neutral as something like panic twists back and forth in his head.

The air is cooler now, the sun off to the west and balanced precariously on the edge of the horizon, staining the clouds pink and orange. Dean tries to focus on anything other than his brother, ominously silent at the wheel.

"Dude, calm down," says Sam, and Dean's whole body jerks at the words. He can't read the tone of voice any better than he could read the intense expression from moments before, and he wonders whose fault it is. Could be Sam, deliberate walls in place to throw him off. Or it could just be Dean's own panic sabotaging him, keeping him off his game, now of all times, when all he wants is one goddamn hint at what he's supposed to do.

"I am calm," Dean insists, even though he _knows_ they can both tell it's bullshit. "I'm totally goddamn zen. I'm fucking _Buddha_."

A small smirk plays across Sam's face, and Dean feels his heart stutter at the sight.

"Buddha, Dean? Really? I wouldn't have thought he was your type."

"Bite me," Dean mutters, but it feels forced.

"Dude, seriously." And there's that indecipherable intensity again, Sam's eyes locked on him so hard it hurts. "We're almost there. Chill."

"No fair being all mysterious about it Sammy," Dean says, not sure he even wants to know. "Come on, where are we going?"

"You'll just have to wait until we get there."

Dean mostly sulks the rest of the way. Or tries to, but it's harder than it should be, with the gnawing mix of anxious curiosity and biting trepidation that have wormed their way under his skin.

He's nervous as hell, and by the time the car finally slows to a reluctant stop, he realizes he's got no idea what to expect.

Without a word, Sam climbs out from behind the wheel. Dean waits, but Sam doesn't stop or come back, so Dean follows him into the cool night air. They're in a parking lot just off the highway, and Dean can't imagine what Sam wants to show him. Then he turns around to find Sam staring up at a statue of some guy with a gun strapped to his chest.

"Sam?" Dean says, and this is for sure not the strangest thing Sam's ever pulled off the highway to look at, but considering they've gone about six hundred miles out of their way to come here, it pretty much takes the cake.

"It's Steve Canyon," Sam says, looking... well, happy.

"Of course it is." He doesn't have a mirror or anything, but Dean's pretty sure his own expression would not be described the same way.

"Cool, huh?"

"I'm gonna go with no on this one."

Sam reaches out and hooks Dean's right arm in one hand, hauling him closer. "Come on! He's a cartoon character, and the townsfolk had a statue erected in his honor after World War Two. What's not to love?"

Dean's beginning to wonder if he should be carrying around one of those little kits that paranoid parents get to test their teenager's urine for drugs.

"Sam," he says again, tugging his arm out of his brother's grasp.

"You used to love this kind of stuff, Dean." Sam gives him a little frown like Dean is the one behaving like a freak.

"When I was fifteen," Dean says, and doesn't add _before you said you wanted to fuck me_ , because he isn't thinking about that. If Sam's gonna drop it, Dean is more than happy to do the same.

Sam ignores him, arching back with his hands on his hips until his spine cracks. Dean can't help but notice that Sam's muscles bulge and flex more than they used to. He looks a little like a cartoon hero himself all stretched out like that. It's disconcerting to say the least, and Dean wipes a hand over his face, shakes his head to get rid of the image.

"Ready to go?" Sam asks when he's all back to his usual half-slump.

"That's it? Six hundred miles to spend two minutes looking at a statue?" Dean really needs to look into those drug-testing kits.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sam says. "Just thought we should stop and stretch our legs. Fifty miles or so, we'll be where we're going."

"Another tourist attraction?" Dean uses _attraction_ in the loosest sense of the word.

"Nope. Someplace nice and quiet. With a bed for the night."

If Sam hadn't come right up behind him and practically forced him back into the car, Dean just might have cut and run.

The passenger seat feels claustrophobic, and Dean watches the mile markers tick down in the beam of the headlights. Feels trepidation as he counts toward fifty.

Dean feels the beginning thrum of panic settle in behind his eyes again, but it's different this time. Counterbalanced by something else that he's scared to analyze too closely, just the hint of something, an idea or memory that taunts him from the periphery of his thoughts. He can't decipher it without looking too closely, but he knows it's dangerous. Knows it's got something to do with Sam and that easy stretch of spine and muscle he glimpsed in the chill night air.

Now Sam sits silent beside him. Unhelpfully offering no distraction whatsoever. His eyes stay glued to the road, finger tapping arrhythmically against the wheel, and that's the first Dean realizes there's no music playing. Nothing to fill the air between them—air that's suddenly filling his lungs and making his heart race—but damned if Dean is going to let his discomfort show by reaching for the box of cassettes. Sam's ahead in this game, whatever they're playing at, and Dean slouches in his seat. Tries to make it look casual. Keeps watching as the road winds further into the mountains, trying to work out their destination based on years of driving experience.

He doesn't think he's tired enough to nod off again, but apparently sustained panic is exhausting, because Dean's blinking awake by the time he notices gravel crunching under the tires. They're in the middle of nowhere. He glances at Sam, catches the edge of a quick smirk, and he blushes. Realizes he's hard in his jeans and suddenly remembers starts and snippets of his dream. Heat and friction and the hint of that smirk.

He shifts uncomfortably against his seat and thinks unsexy thoughts until the party in his pants simmers down. Doesn't risk another look until Sam brakes hard when the road suddenly turns sharply to the right.

"So," Sam says, like he's got sonar and knows the instant Dean's eyes are on him. "Did you enjoy your nap?" The look on his face, which Dean can see in the glare of the full moon, is split between extremes, mocking and leering at once. "Was it good for you?"

"Shut up," Dean mutters, scrubs a hand across his face. Yeah, okay, so apparently he was totally obvious. Not a surprise, really. A man can't be held responsible for the sounds he makes in his sleep.

He catches, for just an instant, a darker intensity in his brother's eyes. Then Sam's brow smoothes out and it's back to the easy, mocking smile from seconds before. No sign of the hunger, but Dean knows he didn't hallucinate that look. It should disgust him.

He's not sure why his pulse picks up instead.

It picks up even more when Sam brings the car to a stop in front of a cabin. "This place haunted or something?" Dean sounds totally cool. Bored even. He's sure of it.

"Nope," Sam says, and twists around to hook his overshirt off the back seat.

"Cursed?" Dean tries.

"Not cursed.

"Hideout for a coven of witches?"

"Belongs to a guy I went to college with. He likes to cross country ski. Doesn't use it much in the summer."

"So you thought you'd steal it?"

"We're borrowing it. With permission."

"How well d'you know this guy, he just gave you a house?" Dean coughs. The edge that might have hit his voice at the end there was totally because of the dry mountain air and nothing to do with the way he kind of wants to punch the guy who owns the cabin.

Sam just _looks_ at him as he shrugs his shirt on, wiggling a little to get it over his shoulders in the confines of the front seat. He waits for Dean to stop staring at his arms. Not that Dean was staring. Not exactly. More like wondering how Sam even functions with arms that long. Freak.

"I introduced him to the girl he married. Got him a date. Helped him get her back after he forgot their first anniversary." Sam turns and starts to get out of the car.

"Sam!" Dean stops him. "What about that hunt?"

"It's a cyclical thing. We have at least six days before we can do anything useful anyway." Without waiting for Dean to respond, Sam is out of the car with the door closed, disappearing towards the trunk.

"Six days." Dean wonders for a minute if maybe the whole awkward afternoon was just a distraction so Dean wouldn't notice that Sam's taking him on a _vacation_. Then he hears the trunk slam shut and decides that would be too good to be true.

The cabin is a lot nicer looking on the inside than the outside, but unless the bookshelves flanking the fireplace are hiding secret doors, there's only one bed. The fact that it's the size of a small country isn't really making Dean feel any more at ease. A snippet of his dream flashes in his vision and Dean flushes so hot he checks that the logs in the grate haven't burst into flames.

"Hey, Sam." Sam turns from the foot of the bed where he's just dropped both their duffels. "Got a quarter?"

"No magic fingers, I'm afraid."

 _So_ not what Dean needed to think about right now. Christ. "So we can flip to see who gets the sofa, Sam." He seems unable to stop saying his brother's name.

"Oh." Sam digs in his pocket. "I have a nickel or a dime."

It's no surprise at all to Dean when he loses the toss.

"I don't mind sharing the bed, you know," Sam says when Dean looks askance at the stiff-backed designer couch.

"I _know_. You told me that already." _That's the whole problem_ , Dean doesn't add.

"That's not—" Does Sam look contrite? "I'm going to have a shower. Richard said there was some food in the cupboards. Wanna see if there's anything for supper?"

Sam closes the bedroom door behind him, leaving Dean to his own devices.

 

-||-||-||-

The food in the cupboards turns out to include every nonperishable ever invented, and a collection of spices so vast that Dean doesn't even recognize half the names. What the hell is _fenugreek_? But his stomach growls when he looks at the canned tomatoes, so loud Sam probably hears it over the shower spray. The hot, wet shower spray that his brother is standing under _right this minute_. Dean slams the door hard on that thought as he reaches for the nearest can.

By the time he hears the bedroom door creak open, Dean's got the kitchen smelling warm and delicious. It's an easy meal, bow-tie pasta boiling on the stove and tomato sauce bubbling in the pot beside it, but it still leaves him feeling edgy. Domesticated. Dean's been cooking for Sam his entire life, but for some reason it chafes at him tonight.

Footsteps behind him, the soft pad of bare feet as Sam steps through the bedroom door and into the kitchen. Dean doesn't turn around to look at him.

Until he does. Sees Sam using a blue towel to rub his hair into a fluffy disaster. His jeans are hanging low on his hips, toes curled against the tile of the kitchen floor. No shirt, skin still damp, the occasional drip of water slipping down his chest, and that's not goddamn _fair_. Dean's eyes are glued as Sam tosses the towel aside and runs fingers through his messy mop of hair.

"Careful," says Sam, stepping in so close Dean can't even move.

Dean tenses when his brother reaches for him, doesn't know what to think when it turns out Sam is reaching _past_ him. He registers only belatedly the hiss and sizzle of water boiling over, as Sam's long fingers close on the stove's knob and turn down the heat.

He doesn't miss Sam's smirk when his brother steps back to a safe distance, but he sure as hell ignores it.

"I had it under control, jackass," Dean snarls, venom to mask the flustered blush. He wonders if it works even a little. The look on his brother's face points to no.

"So," says Sam, expression shifting suddenly to a harmless, easy grin. "It's too late for hiking tonight, but this place is amazing. You should give it a chance." Scrape of chair legs against the floor as Sam takes a seat at the little table.

"Really." This is easier. Normal. Just his brother trying to convince him to take a break and enjoy the downtime, a conversation they've had a hundred times before.

"You'll see," Sam assures him, leaning back smugly. "Plus, there's a fire pit out back. I know how much you like setting things on fire."

" _Evil_ things," Dean clarifies, forces his face to stay serious. But he feels the hint of a smile threatening just the same. He drains the pasta and serves it up between them, not half bad if his opinion counts for anything, and there's not a bite left over.

He leaves Sam to clean up and makes his way outside.

There's no back door for some reason, but it turns out the front porch wraps right around the cabin, and Dean follows it to the full deck at the back. Spotlights up under the eaves cast a glow over covered furniture in the seating area and a gas barbecue chained to a railing, with enough light left over to spill down the stairs onto the promised fire pit, which comes complete with stacked wood and rough-cut log benches.

Dean grudgingly admits "amazing" isn't much of an exaggeration. He wonders if there are any marshmallows in one of the cupboards he didn't get to before he found the pasta. If there's no evil to set fire to, they might as well make s'mores.

The moon is bright enough for Dean to distinguish the trees at the edge of the clearing, but he can't see much beyond. This far out there's hardly any sound, and he can hear the clink of dishes in the sink even through the closed window. Curious, Dean peeks under the cover of the nearest piece of furniture, and finds a folded recliner. Even collapsed, it looks more comfortable than the sofa, and Dean breaks it out. He hasn't actually _tried_ the sofa yet, so he might be doing it a disservice, but he's pretty sure he's not wrong.

The recliner is _awesome_. And once he's moved it out from under the bright porch light, he can see more stars than he's bothered looking at in years. He's trying to figure out how someone thought Ursa Major looked like a bear when Sam joins him.

"Nice, huh?" Sam says, all quiet, like he doesn't want to disturb any animals that might be lurking.

"There is, indeed, a fire pit."

"Found marshmallows in the kitchen. Graham crackers and chocolate too."

Dean's beginning to wonder if maybe Sam can read minds or something, because it's been fifteen years since they had time to roast marshmallows. "Do you remember that campground in Maine?" Dean asks, and Sam laughs, propping himself against the railing next to Dean's shoulder.

"You had the perfect marshmallow, all golden brown, and I knocked it into the fire by mistake. I thought you were going to kill me."

"It was not a mistake." Dean is very clear on this subject. "You wacked it with your stick."

"I was just trying to put my own out. It wasn't my fault you had yours so close to where I was waving it around."

"Everyone knows you blow marshmallows to put them out," Dean says, only realizing his slip when Sam gives him the raised eyebrow. "Blow _on_ marshmallows."

"Uh huh," Sam says.

"That's the last time I toasted a marshmallow," Dean finally says, when Sam just carries on smirking.

"Not too late for dessert. Want to grab a shower while I start a fire?"

Dean decides that sounds like a pretty excellent idea, even if it _does_ mean Sam gets to be the one playing with matches.

He feels his brother's stare follow him back up the porch, all the way to the corner of the cabin until he steps out of sight. The nervous edge is still there, an awkward balance of uncertainty as he tells himself that he doesn't know what Sam's game is.

He's less convinced than before.

A shower should be a _brilliant_ idea, but for some reason the hot rush of water makes his mind wander all those places he needs it _not_ to go. To Sam, skin still damp and flushed while he towels off his hair; Sam fresh from the shower and invading his space; Sam _looking_ at him in that way Dean never noticed before their train-wreck conversation on an Oklahoma highway.

It's _not_ making his blood rush all of a sudden. Problem is, he's not sure what else might be doing it. Worse, of all the things Dean Winchester can ignore, the fact that his dick is suddenly taking an interest? That's not one of them.

He could take care of it fast. Sound of the water and Sam all the way out back, setting up the tinder with those enormous hands—no way Sam will hear anything.

But there are lines, tenuous but vital, and _this_ is suddenly one of them. This is a line Dean doesn't think he can come back from crossing. The shower wall is slick under his hand, supporting him beneath the pounding spray, and Dean knows he can't.

Because Sam is right. They're not just thoughts when you jerk off to them.

When Dean steps back into his jeans and out of the bathroom, the cool air feels like a blessing. He's got his defenses back up, battlements armed, and he stops in the kitchen for supplies on his way outside.

His brother may have gone crazy, but Dean can still eat s'mores. The world is always easier to deal with when it tastes like chocolate.

The fire is leaping skyward when Dean gets outside with the food and toasting forks he found in a drawer. "We making s'mores or signaling the rescue 'copters?" he asks Sam, who's poking the fire with a stick.

"You're just jealous because I made the big manly fire while you're the one left fetching the food."

"Uh huh," Dean says, but he can't help grinning. For all his brother claims Dean's the pyro in the family, Sam loves it just as much.

"Bring forth the marshmallows," Sam commands in a booming voice.

"You'll end up with nothing but flaming sugar if you try to toast them over that. Let it die down first."

"Thank you Martha Stewart," Sam retorts, but he sits down on one of the benches, relaxing back and tracing lines in the air with the still-glowing end of the fire-poking stick. Dean settles on the next log, keeping himself between Sam and the food.

Watching Sam play with the fire takes Dean right back to when they were eight and twelve, but it also makes him realize how much Sam _isn't_ that little boy anymore. And not just the lumberjack shoulders or the legs that go on for miles, but the way he planned and arranged this sojourn. Not waiting to see what Dean thought. Just doing it.

Sam's been taking charge lately, and Dean can't deny that it hits him every bit as hard as the heated looks and temptingly shower-damp skin. Harder, maybe, and he doesn't really know _what_ to blame for the sudden interest his dick is taking in his (not so) little brother.

Sam throws the stick in the fire, sending up a burst of sparks, and Dean flashes back to the spring Sam turned sixteen and got his first official, state-issued driver's license. He'd been driving for years, but wanted to go out and celebrate anyway, and Dean figured, why not? They hadn't had much to celebrate that year, and it wouldn't hurt anything. Dean used one of his many _not_ -state-issued IDs to buy them a sixer of Rolling Rock, and Sam drove them out to the lake, where they built a fire and looked at the stars. Worried he wouldn't be safe to drive, Sam only had one beer, but he still rested his head on Dean's chest when they laid themselves down in the grass.

And Dean, even though he was only two beers in himself at that point, felt the heat and weight of it in ways he hadn't let himself think about that night or since.

It's the smoke in his eyes that drags Dean back from his reverie, and he waves a hand ineffectually in front of his face. It takes him a moment to figure out that the wind has shifted and plans to stay that way. Betrayed by the elements. Moving to the right just puts him more in line with the drifting smoke, but shifting to the left will put him on the same bench as his brother. Neither is a winning proposition.

Dean coughs loudly to emphasize that this is _quite necessary_ as he moves to share Sam's seat. Sam throws him a look but doesn't comment, and Dean stares resolutely into the fire. Red peaks and swirls that rise and vanish in an instant, hypnotic and warm. Calming.

Even with his brother only a hand's-breadth away.

There has to be a safe way to break the silence, but hell if Dean's got any ideas. It's an awkward wall between them, Sam's blurted confession and now this, the mess exploding in Dean's own brain. He's glad for the golden red glow of firelight. It masks the blush he can feel creeping up his throat. The fire still hasn't burned down, but oversized pyre or no, it's time for those s'mores.

Sam's hand on his arm stops him short.

"It's still too hot, Dean."

His brother's voice is thick, not the teasing lilt Dean expected. Dean is stuck, facing half towards the fire, half towards the food, his arm twisted behind his back, Sam's fingers light and loose on his skin but holding him fast as iron. He wants to laugh it off, make a joke, or just pull his hand free, pick up the marshmallows, maybe prod Sam with one of the forks. Except now the mess in his head is saying, _prod Sam?_ in the little whisper usually reserved for what runs through his mind when short-skirted waitresses lean down to pick up dropped napkins.

"Sam?" Dean hates how it's a question.

The fingers braceleting his wrist tighten a fraction. "C'mon. Just sit down for a minute. It's nice. Just sitting. I've..." Sam trails off, waiting for Dean to obey. Dean is kind of waiting too, wondering if his limbs will do what Sam says or just stay frozen forever. Finally he gives in and sits down.

"I've missed this," Sam says.

He lets go Dean's wrist, and they aren't touching. Which does nothing to explain how Dean can feel Sam right up against him from shoulder to ankle. Dean coughs. "You sit next to me in the car all freaking day."

"That's different." Sam doesn't rise to the bait in Dean's words.

"Hmpf," is all Dean can think to say to that.

"Don't freak out, 'k, Dean?" Sam's trying to get Dean to look at him, and Dean gives in a little, flicking his eyes to Sam's face before returning his gaze to his hands.

"What?" Dean finally says.

"Turn around," and Sam's got his hands on Dean's shoulders, twisting him so Dean is forced to turn and straddle the bench, back to his brother.

Before Dean can say anything at all, Sam starts kneading at the muscles between his spine and shoulder blades, and Dean wishes he wouldn't because it's really not helping _anything_ , except it feels way too good and Dean can't make him stop. They used to do this for each other, after hunts, after tests at school, after Dean had been working too hard in some farmer's field or some auto shop somewhere, and it was no big deal.

 _Then,_ Dean's brain whispers. _It was no big deal_ then _, because you never imagined for one single second that Sam might be getting that slow twist low in his belly like you did._

"I can't—" Dean finally manages to say.

"You can, Dean. Really. You can." Sam doesn't try to edge closer on the bench, doesn't get fresh, he just keeps up the steady pressure along Dean's shoulders and back, seeking out the knots and working them until they give.

In his peripheral vision, Dean watches as the fire burns to brilliant coals.

-||-||-||-

Dean wakes the next morning with his stomach still unsettled from having so much sugar stuffed into it right before bed. A series of cricks down his neck and back make him groan as he sits up and stretches. Standing requires a couple attempts, and he levels a stern look at the wretched beast of a couch.

There's noise coming from the kitchen, the lazy clinking sounds that can only mean coffee, and Dean follows them like a zombie.

"How'd you sleep?" Sam asks, more jovial than he's got any goddamn right to be.

Dean just growls, no words until coffee thanks so much, and he drops gracelessly into one of the chairs. Buries his head against his arms and marvels that he can feel something this close to a hangover from a mere piece of furniture.

"That well?" Sam smirks and nods. Pours him coffee immediately once the pot is full, and Dean offs it like he's drowning. Grimaces when it burns his tongue, but it doesn't stop his long, greedy swallow.

"Offer still stands, you know," Sam says as he settles into the opposite chair. There's an almost apologetic air to the words. "Half the bed. All yours." Dean thinks it's meant more as a peace offering than a proposition, but it's still out of the question.

"Thanks, but no thanks," he says. Keeps it cheeky, a smirk on his face as he says, "I'll take my chance on the homicidal sofa." He feels an instant stab of guilt when the words make Sam's face shutter up tightly.

"Christ," Dean murmurs, shoving his coffee mug aside and pinching the bridge of his nose. His head hurts.

"Dean," Sam says, and then just stops. Like he's waiting. He doesn't say more until Dean opens his eyes and looks up, waiting until he's got his brother's full attention. "I'm sorry about the way all that shit came out yesterday. It wasn't fair. But you know me, _nothing_ comes out right when I get pissed off."

Dean wants a goddamn do-over on this conversation because hell no. No way he's letting Sam say any more on the subject, shouldn't have let him say _this_ much, and Dean shoves quickly away from the table. The chair makes a high, unpleasant squawk against the floor.

The wood of the windowsill is cool under his palms, and he leans there heavily, eyes scoping the horizon outside. He can feel his shoulders scrunched up against his ears, the whole stretch of his spine unpleasantly tense, and the quiet of the little kitchen only makes it worse. Makes him sure that Sam is just staring him down, eyes on Dean's back, lower lip between his teeth.

The silence stretches between them, seconds to minutes and on, until Dean manages to force his breathing even, his pulse calm, his stance smooth.

"So," he finally says, forcing his voice cheerful. "What's there to do around here?"

The light is all wrong for the window to act like a mirror, but Dean can still see his brother in his mind's eye. The way he deflates and then rallies when he realizes Dean's gonna out-stubborn him this time.

Only Sam's voice carries the weight of _don't think I'm letting this drop_ when he speaks: "Well, Dean, there's hiking, or chopping wood, or you could lie on the deck and work on your freckles."

Yeah. Because lying around half-naked with Sam sounds like a great plan.

"I'm gonna go hiking though. There's a giant rock somewhere around here that's supposed to have a great view. There's a trail map in the bedroom."

Dean considers the awesomeness of the deck chair and thinks that maybe some time away from Sam would be a good thing. But he doesn't really want to see the shuttered look of disappointment on Sam's face again. Before he commits to anything, Dean needs more coffee and a shower.

"I need more coffee and a shower," he says.

"There's a market five or six miles down the road," Sam says. "You do your thing and I'll go get us some fresh food." He's holding out Dean's mug topped up from the pot, eager to please, but Dean can still see the stubborn set to his mouth.

"Get some bacon, bitch," Dean says, taking his mug and heading for the bathroom.

The front door slams while he's waiting for the water to heat up, and that alone is enough to undo a layer of kinks in his back. Not kinks. Knots. Definitely knots. The hot water does the rest, and by the time he's drying off, Dean is back to his post-back-rub, pre-sleeping-on-the-sofa state. He's also in a better mood. Maybe a hike with Sam will be good for him.

Their fight in the car yesterday had been a stupid one, Dean pushing and pushing when he should have let it go. Yeah, okay, one of the guns Sam cleaned had jammed, the dry click sparking a graphic image in Dean's mind of his brother ripped to shreds, bleeding out while Dean stood helpless to stop it. But they'd been shooting at cans at the time, so Sam wasn't actually in danger. Plus there had been great swirls of dust kicking up while they shot, and blowing dust can get to a gun's workings, even one that's been cleaned perfectly.

Dean had yelled right there in the field, and that could have been the end of it. But when they'd gotten back in the car, Sam behind the wheel because he'd won a bet— Dean doesn't go back on bets even when he's justified—Dean had another flash of the vision. Not like a Sam vision, thank Christ, that was the last thing they needed, but clear enough. Sam broken, bleeding, _dying_ , and Dean helpless to stop it. So he started up again.

Sam protested and argued while Dean listed his shortcomings in driving, weapons maintenance, and even laundry, but it was Dean saying, "What the hell am I supposed to do if you get yourself killed? Do you ever stop to think about me?" that did it.

Sam just said, "Fuck you," at first, and Dean thought it was over. The bastard waited at least ten minutes before he said... what he said. Like thinking _those_ things about his brother was going to make up for being unprepared in a hunt.

The sound of the Impala's engine and tires crunching on the driveway makes Dean rush to finish getting dressed.

"Bacon?" he enquires, doing up the last button of his shirt as Sam barges his way into the cabin.

Instead of a spoken response, Sam tries to catch him off guard by lobbing a fast-food bag at his head. But there's nothing in the world like Winchester reflexes, and Dean catches it easily. Starts salivating instantly at the greasy fresh smell of bacon & cheese biscuit sandwiches. Paradise.

By the time he reaches the kitchen to spread out on the little table, Dean already has one of the wrappers ripped open, half the sandwich shoved in his mouth with one bite.

He watches Sam set his other cargo on the counter, one large paper grocery bag that better have goddamn meat in it or Dean is _gone_. Watching Sam is as much self-defense as anything. There are two delicious McBiscuits here, and as far as Dean is concerned they're both his. Can't have Grabby McGrab-Hands over there make off with one of them for his own nefarious enjoyment.

But Sam doesn't seem to be paying attention as Dean tears into the second sandwich. Too busy studiously unpacking the contents of the grocery bag. A whole lot of vegetables come out first, but they're followed by raw hamburger patties, some random cuts of steak and—are those kabob skewers? Dean would whoop in triumph if his mouth weren't full.

Sam doesn't have far to reach for any of the food, but when he moves to put the kabob skewers away it's in the topmost shelf above the fridge. It requires a rise onto tiptoes, even for Sam, and a stretch of his back muscles that _has_ to be deliberate. His shirt rides up, obscenely distracting, and Dean forgets to chew for a minute. Has to remind himself to swallow the last bite of biscuit.

Sam takes his time recoiling from the stretch, and Dean can't so much as blink when his brother turns around.

"So," says Sam, face all practiced innocence. "Hiking. You in or out?"

"In." Dean covers his blush with a cough and stands, even though it puts him a step closer to Sam. He's not running scared from his brother, not even now, and when he meets Sam's eyes again it's with deliberate defiance.

"Good." Sam smiles, genuine and warm. He takes a step closer, just barely outside the bubble of Dean's personal space. "I'll go get the map. You find a compass."

"I thought you said there were trails," Dean protests. "The hell we need a compass for?"

"In case we _lose_ the trail, dumbass."

"You're the dumbass," Dean says, knowing Sam will just ignore him. His brother doesn't disappoint.

"Oh, and there's some water bottles in the cupboard next to the window. Fill those up. You get dehydrated twice as fast at this altitude." Sam's backing towards the bedroom, watching to make sure Dean is paying attention. Or maybe just ensuring he can keep that fond look trained on Dean as long as possible.

Dean thinks there must be a joke about dehydration and body fluids, but he's also pretty sure he shouldn't make it even if he thinks of it, so he just gives Sam a raised eyebrow and says, "Thank you, Ranger Rick."

Sarcasm aside, he knows as well as Sam does how quickly you can get thirsty hiking in the mountains, so he does as he's told. The canteens are no military surplus specials; clearly Richard does his shopping at one of the ritzy camping specialist shops. There are four fancy bottles, each with a clip for easy fastening to a belt or pack. Dean fills them all.

None of the kitchen drawers yield a compass, nor do any of the drawers in the desk in the main room. Or the carved box on the bookshelf. He's about to see if Sam—who seems to be taking an uncommonly long time to find the maps—has seen one, when he hears a thump from the bedroom.

"Sammy? You okay in there?"

"Yes. I—fuck. Yes. I'm fine. Be right out."

He sounds more embarrassed than hurt, so Dean leaves him to his own devices. Then he remembers: "Think there's a compass in the trunk, I'll be right back," he calls.

When Dean returns, compass in hand, Sam is standing at the kitchen sink drinking a glass of water and wearing— _oh god_ —safari shorts.

"Sam?" Dean _knows_ he doesn't have to explain what the question is about.

"I, uh, spilled... something. On my jeans. And, well, it's been way too long since we did laundry. So I looked in the closet, and there's a whole bunch of ski pants and some kind of lycra thing that I didn't even want to think about, and these." Sam plucks at one of the hundred or so pockets adorning his legs. "They're not that bad."

"If you say so." And actually, now that he mentions it, Sam's right. Because Dean is absolutely and genuinely not thinking about his brother in any way that could be considered un-fraternal while the guy is wearing those shorts.

"Besides, I can bring lots of snacks." With that, Sam opens a cupboard and starts stuffing granola bars and boxes of raisins into his pockets. Dean hopes he remembers which ones, or they'll never find the stash.

"Always the boy scout," Dean says.

"Speaking of which, I'll just put on a load of laundry before we go." And with that, Sam slides open a panel Dean hadn't noticed before, revealing a stacked washer and dryer, and goes to get his duffle.

"And you called me Martha Stewart?"

"Just give me your dirty underwear, Dean," Sam says, "so we can get this show on the road."

Something about the way he says it makes Dean wonder for a second what Sam managed to 'spill' on his jeans in the bedroom, but he dismisses the thought that Sam was in there jerking off as a) unlikely, and b) not something he wants to be contemplating, so he throws his bag at Sam instead, and goes to wait on the back deck for Mr. Mom to get the washing started.

He fidgets with the compass while he waits, row of canteens laid out across the porch's top step beside him. He sits hunched and a little bit impatient, because there's a nervous energy stuck fast in his blood. It makes him want to move. Makes him need it, but no way in hell is he going to stand up and start pacing the length of the wooden deck. Not for Sam to see.

So he sits and hunches and keeps right on fidgeting with the compass until he hears Sam's footsteps behind him.

"About goddamn time," he mutters, lobbing a canteen at his brother's head. Dean stands and descends the few steps to the dirt, and when he turns back to look at his brother he has to raise a hand above his eyes to shield them from the morning sun. "Where's this rock?"

Sam smirks, still looks _ridiculous_ in those shorts, and it's all Dean can do to keep from cracking up right there. As it is he barely fights the smile off his face.

"East," says Sam, quick steps bringing him to Dean's side. With him standing so close, Dean can't see the safari shorts any longer, not even in his peripheral vision, but knowing they're still there draws an unwilling snicker as he checks the direction and heads East.

"It's a good look for you, Sammy," he says, appeased by the bright bark of laughter as Sam falls into step beside him. "You should see if your friend will let you keep them."

"You're not funny," says Sam, but he obviously doesn't mean it.

"I'm hilarious," Dean corrects him with an elbow to the ribs.

The trail is easy to find, and even easier to follow, but with the thick foliage and the endless twists and turns it still takes them ages to find the view Sam mentioned. The entire hike is shadowed, hinting tickle of sunlight through the trees above them. They catch sight of deer already in fast retreat, barest glimpses of smaller animals as they disappear deeper into the green surroundings.

They hold silence between them through most of the hike, but it's not the same awkward quiet that has settled between them in the last two days. It's the echo of wordless exertion as their steps map an uneven path farther into the wood.

Dean's brain tries to wander, same now as ever, but for once he has a defense against the distracting thoughts. A quick glance to his side, at his brother in his current getup, and he's back to the real world. Snickering quietly to himself and not thinking about _anything_ beyond the fact that his brother looks like a total tool.

"It should be just ahead," Sam finally says, and two steps later they're emerging from the forest periphery. The direct sunlight is a sudden attack on his retinas, so bright Dean has to shield his face until his eyes finally adjust to take in the view.

His first thought is that they've come to the end of the world, but then he sees that it's just the edge of the mountain. It's still pretty spectacular though. About fifty yards to their left is a granite boulder almost too bright to look at, and Dean figures this is what they've come to climb. While he's stopped to stare, Sam has started to edge past him, getting between Dean and the boulder. Which is just not going to work, because if Dean has to climb and look at those shorts at the same time, he'll fall on his ass laughing. Fine when there's a sofa behind him, but when there's rock and a thirty-foot drop? Not so much.

He calls to Sam, "Hold up there, mountain man. I'm going first."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam says. "Big brother protector scouting the way for his helpless little brother."

"You wish!" Dean laughs, and Sam gives him a bemused look but laughs with him. "I just don't want to worry about a rain of health food spilling from all those pockets."

The trail leads to a sort of shelf on the boulder about four feet up, and from there a rope handrail is spiked into the rock along a natural-looking slope. Dean hoists himself up and begins the ascent. He can hear Sam scrabbling behind him, but doesn't turn to look. It takes about twenty minutes to get to the top, and _wow_. From up there it really _does_ look like they're at the edge of everything. Dean toasts the view with a long gulp of water, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam do the same.

"Richard wasn't kidding, was he?" Sam says.

"You're right, this is great." Dean doesn't mean to put so much weight into the words, but even he can hear that he's not just talking about the rock or the view, and somehow he doesn't look away when Sam returns his gaze with one that's equal parts grateful and hungry.

Then Sam says, "Dean?" and takes a step towards him.

And Dean doesn't flinch. Or even want to back away. But then he glances down and that's it. The wind's behind Sam and it's kind of blowing the shorts forward and the pockets are flapping and his slightly knobby knees are sticking out the bottom and Dean just can't take it.

He laughs until he can't stand up anymore and then he crouches, crumples up and sits, and laughs some more. He laughs until tears are squirting out of the corners of his eyes and his chest makes a disturbing whooping sound when he breathes. He bashes his wrist on the rock and still doesn't stop laughing.

It feels like a ten ton weight is being wrenched out with the sound and is drifting out into the abyss in front of them.

When he finally looks up, light-headed and with a mouth like cotton, the shorts are gone. Sam is sitting on them like a blanket, in his t-shirt and boxer briefs.

"Are you finished?" Sam asks, but Dean can tell he's barely keeping it together himself. The heated smirk says he's been watching the show and loving every second.

"I'll let you know," Dean answers him with warm honesty, because the truth is? He could be gone again any second. Sure, Sam's not _wearing_ the monstrous article of clothing any longer, but the damage is done and Dean still snickers just thinking about it.

"Here," says Sam, tossing him a box of raisins.

"Thanks," says Dean, and doesn't even mind that they're not M&Ms. The horizon stretches out forever around them, wide and bright, a collage of green and rocky brown, bright splashes of orange here and there, and somehow the raisins taste perfect.

His wrist throbs a little from where he banged it on the rock, and he can feel Sam's eyes staring him down, but he'll pay attention to those things later. He just... needs this first.

After five minutes have turned into twenty, Sam asks him, "Are we ever going to talk about it?" It's a gentle question, no confrontation in his brother's voice. Just a quiet resolve, a tone that sounds _nothing_ like surrender.

"What do you mean 'ever'?" Dean asks. "It hasn't even been _two days_ , dude." It's not quite the answer Dean meant to give, not really an answer at all, but it's more acknowledgment than he's allowed himself since their disaster of a conversation on the other side of the Oklahoma border.

" _Feels_ like forever," Sam says, and it's so plaintive Dean laughs again. A short, quick burst of sound that passes in a heartbeat. Sam is still staring at him, and the look on his face is nowhere near funny.

Dean's own face falls serious, and he says, "Sammy." Not really sure what it's supposed to mean.

If he meant it to dissuade, then speaking was a total failure. Sam slides closer, no care for his bare knees on the hot stone as he takes up a position only inches away from where Dean still sprawls. Dean holds his breath as Sam leans towards him, one slow fraction of an inch at a time.

"Why?" Dean asks when his brother is braced on one arm and so close there's no mistaking what comes next.

"Because," says Sam, and closes the distance.

Dean is proud of himself. Really goddamn proud, because he makes it a whole 30 seconds into the kiss before he freaks out.

He's careful when he shoves Sam away, doesn't want to push him over the edge of their rocky perch. He regrets it immediately, the sudden loss as his mouth opens on empty air where Sam's lips used to be, warm and brief and perfect. But it's too late. The panic is settling in, sinking into his skin, and he can't move away fast enough. Even though all he wants is more.

Dean scrambles back on palms and heels, two feet, three maybe, before he remembers he's on top of a boulder and there's limited space. Sam is sitting back on the discarded shorts, turned half away and looking out over the view. Not like rejection, not even moping, just... giving Dean some space. And fuck. _Fuck_ , Dean wants Sam to look at him, but he's so fucking thankful that he doesn't. Because who knows if that might send him over the edge. Literally.

The spare water bottle is still hooked on Dean's belt, and yeah, definitely quality merchandise, because he was crashing it pretty good against the rocks in his flight, and it's not even scratched. Fingers fumbling, Dean unscrews the lid and takes a long swallow. Then another when that seems to slow his racing heart a bit.

He sneaks another look at Sam, who's still looking out, now with his knees drawn up, hunched over a little, gripping his legs like maybe staying still is too much effort. Which makes Dean feel twice damned; cosmically fucked no matter what he does.

"I'm—" he tries, but no sound comes out, so he tries again. "I'm okay." _Way to lie to your brother, Dean._

Sam does a half-shrug/half-nod thing but still doesn't look in Dean's direction.

"You're okay." Which sounds a little more convincing, though Dean has no idea if it's true, and Sam doesn't give him any clues.

Another sip of water and Dean adds, "Not even two days, dude." And that's just facts. Sam can't argue with that. Especially since it sounds more like ' _I just need time_ ' than the outright ' _No_ ' that Dean intended, and just what is it about his little brother that sends all of Dean's verbal skills into hiding? Nothing comes out right where Sam is involved, and they've got a long history of useless fights and frustration to show for it. But it's worse now, a disaster waiting to happen, and Dean slowly swallows the rest of the water because it beats risking whatever words might come out of his mouth next.

When he lowers the canteen, Sam is watching him again. No surprise there. Dean catches the dark _predatory_ glint in his brother's eyes just for an instant before Sam locks it away behind a light, reassuring smile.

"We should get back," Sam says, though he makes no move to stand. "Laundry's done by now, and we've got kabobs to make."

"In a minute," says Dean, even though those kabobs sound just about perfect right now. "Hey, give me one of those granola bars," he demands, quick cover. Watches Sam shift so he can dig around in the pockets of the shorts he's been sitting on.

"Here." Sam throws it at him, fast and hard, but Dean has no problem catching it. Sam's got one for himself, too, and they toast to the wilderness before tearing in.

It's no good hiking all that way back on an empty stomach; they'd be remiss if they didn't eat something before setting off. That's what Dean tells himself.

The truth is he doesn't quite trust his legs to carry him.

The walk back seems to take a fraction of the time they spent hiking out. Partly because it's downhill, partly the trail's familiar now and Dean doesn't have to stop to check the compass at every fork, but mostly it's that Dean is barely even there. He's determinedly doing a mental catalogue of everything in the Impala's trunk while he comes up with which tracks he'd put on a Led Zeppelin's greatest hits album if he were a record producer. Sam helpfully stays behind him, so there's no distraction from that quarter.

They arrive so quickly that when Dean comes around a corner between two trees and sees the cabin, it takes him completely by surprise.

"You want skewering or fire duty?" Sam asks, his first words since they climbed down off the boulder, and Dean starts at the sound.

"It's a gas barbecue, you just light it," Dean says, hoping the scorn covers the way his stomach is roiling now he's reminded Sam's here.

"Well then. You can have skewering _and_ fire duty, and I'll finish the laundry."

Fortunately the laundry cubby is on the far side of the kitchen from the refrigerator, so they manage their respective chores without having to squeeze past each other. The shorts somehow aren't funny anymore, and Dean knows, because he checks several times as Sam's bending and squatting and reaching for dryer sheets, just to make sure. When he's got the clothes tumbling, Sam disappears into the bedroom.

Dean cuts up the steak and throws it in a bowl with the marinade Sam left on the counter. Though he'd be perfectly happy with just that, he cuts up an onion, a red pepper and a green one, and washes the cherry tomatoes and the mushrooms Sam bought.

There's no sound from the bedroom, and Dean wants to ask Sam what he's doing, wants to tell him to get his ass out here and string vegetables if he wants to eat them so badly, but he can't. Instead, he alternates meat with onions and peppers and then threads the mushrooms and tomatoes on skewers of their own, remembering from some cooking show that they'd get overcooked if he put them with the meat.

He's proud of himself for remembering, and wants Sam to be proud of him too. Trouble is, he doesn't want a clap on the back, and it's still way too fucking scary to think about what he _does_ want, so he finds a tray, loads it up with food, and heads for the back deck.

"Sam," he calls on the way past the bedroom, "dryer's done."

On the grill, the meat smells good enough that Dean's starting to consider eating it practically raw. To avoid temptation, he busies himself uncovering chairs and the table, setting out the plates and forks, and making sure he remembered the beer. He's just added the vegetables to the grill when his brother comes out of the house.

Sam is wearing jeans and one of Dean's old t-shirts, but that's all Dean has time to register before Sam comes at him, pushes him right up against the side of the house, and kisses him. No tentative exploration, no holding back, a real hips-to-hips, chest-to-chest, hungry, _fucking awesome_ kiss. When Dean goes to push Sam away, he finds his hands tangling in Sam's hair instead and finally just gives in.

It's everything Dean has been steadfastly refusing to think about: delicious sweep of Sam's tongue past his lips, Sam's knee sliding between his legs in a gentle taunt, an easy tease of pressure that runs completely counter to the hard heat of Sam's body holding him against the cabin.

Sam's hands are every bit as steady and sure as the rest of him, holding Dean closer, fingers sliding through the short brush of hair at Dean's neck in order to maneuver the kiss _just so_.

Dean needs to breathe, needs big old gulps of air to combat the lightheadedness he suddenly feels. Sam obliges at the slightest hint, apparently content to shift his exploration to the contours of Dean's throat. Lips and the deliberate scrape of teeth along his skin, and _oh_ , Dean _still_ can't breathe. It's like Sam knows all his secret spots, kissing up along Dean's jaw when given the opening, when Dean throws his head back against the wall.

Dean realizes in an embarrassed instant that he's grinding down against the press of Sam's knee, the mindless need for friction almost as overpowering as the heat of Sam's mouth. Which finds his own again the next gasping moment, and Sam is murmuring something against Dean's lips but hell if he can make it out, and he _doesn't care_ so long as Sam keeps touching him forever.

Forever turns out to be a lot shorter than Dean had hoped. One second he's practically _covered_ with Sam, thinking about taking one of those exploring hands and guiding it to more useful pursuits, and the next... nothing. Empty air and his own startled gasps.

When he opens his eyes, Sam is giving him the strangest look. But his eyes are unmistakable, roaring fire of need that says he wants to keep going just as badly as Dean does, so why the hell _don't_ they?

"Kabobs," says Sam, and suddenly Dean remembers that he's _starving_. Even from here he can see that the meat is already at the well done end of the spectrum, on its way to charcoal if they don't get it off the heat now. The tomatoes and mushrooms are a lost cause.

Dean almost doesn't care. Sam is still standing too close, and Dean wants to finish this now. Is maybe a little bit afraid that distance and a meal will get his upstairs brain working again. Because this thing with Sam... he knows he can't have it if he has time to _think_ about it.

Apparently Sam is still reading minds, because as soon as he has the food off the grill and the plates on the table, he's back. Fingers on Dean's forearm guiding him towards a chair, and then up to Dean's shoulder, teasing behind his ear, smooth down the muscle at the back of his neck, keeping Dean's head buzzing, making it hard to focus. He sits so their legs are tangled, outside of one knee stroking against the inside of Dean's left thigh.

"Caught it just in time," Sam says, and it's only then Dean realizes that Sam has forked the food off his skewer and is looking at Dean expectantly.

"Yeah. Good," Dean says, and hi, _food_ here, but he can't seem to make his fingers curl around his fork when what they want is Sam. Sam who doesn't seem inclined to stop rubbing up against him.

"Try it." The smile Sam gives him is so totally familiar that Dean couldn't stop himself grinning back if his life depended on it. And suddenly Dean can move.

"Yeah," Dean says again and stabs at the meat. It _is_ good and makes his stomach growl. The first kebob is gone in under a minute, and Sam gives him a second. Dean's thinking about chewing, and the way the peppers and onions are soft and the meat bursts with the tang of the marinade, and maybe a little bit about how Sam looks happier than Dean has seen him in months, but not at all about how his dick is straining towards Sam's knee or how he whimpered into his brother's mouth five minutes ago and didn't even care.

Sam's _mouth_ that has a drip of pepper juice at the corner, which Dean really should not want to clean off with his tongue. His mouth which is curving into another one of those smiles, which he's pushing at with a fingertip that he then slides between his lips. And he knows, he fucking _knows_ what he's doing, because Dean can see it all over his face, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Why don't you care?" Dean asks, even though talking about this is just about dead last on his list of things he might like to do right now. Somewhere down around fighting off a nest of vampires all alone or driving his baby off a cliff.

It takes only a fraction of a second for Sam to make the connection, but Dean can still see it on his face—his synapses firing, following Dean's leap. "Question is," Sam says, tone completely serious, "why do you care so much?"

It's not a fair question. But then, Dean supposes, neither was his own, and if he could stand to give up the touch of Sam's knee he'd be kicking himself right now. He can't just shoot the topic down, because he started it this time.

He gives a self-conscious cough, low in his throat, and sets his fork aside. It takes several moments to quiet the panicked swirl of his own thoughts, but he takes the time. Knows Sam won't begrudge him.

"I'm not really sure how you can ask me that," Dean finally says. His tongue feels heavy with the words. "If we..." He coughs again, swallows. Rubs a hand across his face in a nervous gesture that can't possibly give away more than Sam already knows. "It's not like this is a _small_ problem, dude. There are _lines_."

"So society doesn't approve," says Sam, shrug of his shoulders evidencing a tension his voice doesn't convey. "That's nothing new. What society doesn't know can't hurt it."

"It can hurt _us_."

"You know that's not true. We're good at what we do, Dean. If we cover our tracks well enough, there's no way anyone finds out." Sam is leveling this _look_ at him, but he's drawn completely out of Dean's space. No knee to distract as he leans forward, earnest intensity in his voice, and says, "This thing's between you and me, Dean. So tell me. Why do you care so much?"

There are a million reasons, all totally valid, _all_ between him and Sam, and they're roiling around Dean's head in such a cacophony that he can't voice a single one. They should go without saying, every one of them centering around ' _Sammy_ ' and ' _brother_ ' and ' _family_ ' and a hundred other values that are maybe all Dean's ever had.

He shouldn't have to explain them to Sam.

So he stands up instead, ignores the imploring glint in his brother's stare as his feet carry him off of the porch and to the far side of the fire pit, where he drops onto a bench and stares out into the wilderness.

Behind him he hears the clink and clatter as Sam cleans up. The sun is setting beyond the horizon, a startling splash of pink between the trees, and all Dean can do is stare at it. Apparently he's had enough thinking for the night, because his brain is shutting down around the issues that are just too damn big to deal with right now.

There's a pause, long seconds of silence where he knows that Sam is watching him. Thinking about approaching. But he clearly decides better of it, because Dean's illusion of solitude stays undisturbed. He sits silently through the sunset, elbows on his knees and shoulders slumped, and he doesn't go inside until the last hint of daylight has given way to the pitch of night and the broad canvas of stars overhead.

Sam is still awake when Dean walks into the bedroom, and Dean doesn't really know why he expected otherwise. Maybe the hope that they could pretend this away a little longer, but his brother is having none of it. The expression on his face isn't exactly apologetic, but it's softer than Dean expects. Understanding. Dean really doesn't want to talk about it again.

He shuffles uneasily through his routine, brushing his teeth and donning his sleepwear. Clean t-shirt and boxers that look pretty much exactly like Sam's. When he makes a move for the couch, the silence finally shatters.

"Dean, don't sleep on the sofa." Sam sits propped against the headboard, left side of the bed, and a book hangs half-read in his hand.

"Can we not do this right now?" Dean asks, aching with how tired he suddenly feels.

"Seriously, man, just take the other side of the bed. You're being ridiculous, and another night on that thing might kill you."

"I'll take my chances," says Dean, rinse and repeat. Except Sam is staring at him, face wide open with exasperation.

"For god's sake, Dean, I'm not going to molest you in your sleep!"

"Maybe it's not _you_ I'm worried about!"

And oh. Shit. Dean's never going to open his mouth again, and now would be a great time for a hole to open up and drop him through the floor. The silence feels shaky in the space between them, Dean's gaze darting helplessly around the room. He can't ignore the way Sam's mouth presses into a serious line, the way hazel eyes go slightly watery.

"I know you don't want to talk about this," Sam says. "But—"

"You're right."

"Dean—"

It's not even so much that Dean doesn't want to, but that he can't. So he turns away from Sam's imploring face and walks out, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

Which is, of course, no impediment at all to Sam, who just gets up and opens it again, following Dean to the sofa and pushing him down, sitting next to him with a hand on Dean's knee and one on his shoulder. "You are _not_ in _any_ universe more stubborn than I am, Dean."

"This is harassment."

"So write to the company head and complain." Sam moves his hands to Dean's wrists, still not letting him go, but making him feel slightly less trapped. "I'm not molesting you here, I'm _not_ , but we are talking about this. Now. Tonight."

"No."

"What's the worst thing you can imagine happening if we do this? Apocalypse, end of the world scenario in your head."

"Sam..." Dean starts to struggle, trying to escape Sam's hold, but though he's not gripping Dean's arms all that tightly, the circles of his fingers hold fast, and Dean can't pull away.

Sam asks, "Will they arrest us? Run us out of town? Call us fags? Filthy brother-fuckers? What are you scared is going to happen?"

Clearly Sam doesn't get it at all. Dean doesn't get how Sam could think he cares about any of that. The way he's talking, it's like he thinks Dean is _stupid_.

"Who gives a shit about that stuff? What are you even _talking_ about? None of that is even a fucking blip on the radar!" Dean's so angry he's shaking with it, and he has no idea what he's going to say next.

"You want to know the worst thing that could happen? You could fucking _leave_ , Sam. Look at me while you're fucking me senseless and realize that I'm doing a shitty job of taking care of you, wonder what the _hell_ you were thinking, and _leave_."

"Dean—"

"How can you even _ask_ why I'm worried?"

"Dean," Sam says, the word a command. He grips Dean's face, makes Dean look at him.

"I'm not going to leave. I _couldn't_."

"You—" But Sam doesn't let him finish.

"I was eighteen. Living with Dad breathing down my neck, trying to make me into something I wasn't ready to be."

Dean knows that, but he still feels like Sam's missing the point. "We shouldn't want this, Sam. It's not how you're supposed to love your brother."

"Says who?"

"Says everyone!"

"Well, it's how I love you, Dean. And it's how you love me. And I think it's fucking stupid to worry about what some hypothetical 'everyone' thinks about it."

Suddenly Dean's so far beyond exhausted with the topic that there's nothing left to argue. "Fine," he says, so quiet he's not even sure Sam will hear him.

"Fine?"

"I'll sleep in there with you."

Sam stands and pulls him up, but then lets go completely, leaving Dean to follow or not, the choice entirely his.

 

-||-||-||-

Dean wakes the next morning to the stab of sunlight between curtains, and realizes he's still curled safely on his own side of the bed. He's marginally shocked to have slept at all, pulse picking right back up again when he remembers where they left off last night.

When he finally works up the nerve to check, he finds Sam's side of the bed empty. Both the bathroom and the kitchen are quiet, and even though Dean knows there's nothing out here to hurt them, the silence is completely unnerving.

Kitchen first, and the budding panic attack is instantly assuaged by a note on the refrigerator. Sam knows him too goddamn well, and the note says ' _I'm just outside, dude, stop freaking out. I made coffee._ '

Dean doesn't need more encouragement than that, and the coffee pot never saw it coming. He savors the delicious, bitter burn on his tongue and tries to figure out what comes next.

Sam is deliberately giving him space, and much as he may try not to be, Dean is grateful.

He indulges in a longer shower than usual, letting the heat lull him into a mindless calm. Problem is, he doesn't know what he needs. Which just leaves him confused as hell, with no idea how to talk to Sam. He can't take back all the things that came out of his mouth last night.

He can't deny them to himself, either.

Dean is a prune when he finally steps out of the shower, but he feels a new, tentative calm settle in. Like the water managed to wash away the sharp edge of uncertainty.

True to his word, Sam is just outside the cabin. Not even out back. He sits perched on the top step off the front porch, mug of coffee in his giant hands.

"Scoot," says Dean, nudging his brother with his bare toes. It's a wide set of stairs, but Sam is seated smack in the middle. He only shifts aside a few inches. Not far enough that they'll have any space between them, even though there's still something like a foot to Sam's left.

Dean doesn't comment as he sits.

"You know it's not that simple," Dean finally says, and he's pretty sure he's talking about all the things Sam said last night.

"Could be," Sam retorts. "You want it. I want it. I just..." When he tapers off it's with such a soft sigh that Dean's heart aches.

"Just what, Sam?"

"I just don't know how to convince you. I'm in this for good, Dean. I'm not talking marriage vows or anything, but... I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

"You left before," Dean whispers, even though they covered that already. There's more to this. He can _feel_ it, and whatever it is, he needs to hear Sam say it. "You can't tell me that was all just about Dad, dude. You didn't have to cut _me_ out, too." Because Sam didn't just leave. He _really_ left, just took himself out of Dean's life one afternoon and stayed gone. No grudge against their father could explain away the fact that for over three years Sam never returned a single goddamn call.

"I was eighteen," Sam says with a helpless shrug. "I thought there was something wrong with me." He finally glances up from his coffee to lock Dean in a hard stare. "I didn't think I could ever have this."

"You..." but there's nothing else to say to that. Because what Sam's saying is that he's known about this— _thought_ about this—since he was in high school. At least. Which makes Dean feel sick. Not with disgust like it should, but with a fierce need to go back and tell that Sammy—who had spent so much time sullen and angry in a way that baffled Dean at the time—that everything was going to be okay.

"So," Sam says, and drops his gaze to his knee where he becomes intent on rubbing a drip of coffee that's soaked into the denim.

Dean can't go back and make things better for the eighteen-year-old Sam, but his brother is sitting here now, looking just about as lost. Setting his mug on the porch behind him, Dean slides his other hand under Sam's rubbing fingers, leaving it to rest heavy on Sam's knee in what he hopes is a comforting manner.

Whether Sam takes it as comfort or not, Dean can't say, but he takes it as something, because suddenly his mug is tumbling to the driveway and he's pulling Dean forward in an awkward twist in order to reach his mouth. Dean's afraid he's going to fall off the step, but that's not the only reason he clings to Sam's shoulders—an admission that might surprise him a little, if he weren't so busy exploring Sam's mouth with his tongue.

Stairs are not particularly well designed for make-out sessions, and Dean is considering trying to move before his spine snaps, maybe get so he's kneeling between Sam's legs, when Sam somehow hauls Dean right across his lap and half into the empty space on the other side of him. It makes Dean feel a little bit like a girl, but it's a _lot_ hot, so he doesn't care. Now they're chest to chest, Dean's legs draped over Sam's thighs, Sam's right arm around Dean's hips and the other around his ribs, both Dean's hands tugging at his brother's hair. His _brother_ , who he's kissing like the world might end if he doesn't.

He's got no idea how long they go at it that way, deep kisses with the echo of coffee on their tongues, but Dean's pretty sure he's memorized every millimeter of his brother's mouth by now. He still can't get enough. His skin tingles, eager slide of sensation when Sam's hands slip up to his face, the back of his neck, apply just enough pressure to take the kiss and shape it, angle it to Sam's every nonverbal command.

Dean wonders suddenly if this is where it escalates, if he should be reaching for Sam's zipper. Dean's own dick is definitely taking an interest, and a low groan lingers in his throat.

But the truth is, Dean is scared shitless. It's a big jump from confession to action, at least it is when the warm mouth beneath his own belongs to his _brother_ , and whatever this moment is, it's enough. Dean wants more, but he knows now's not the time to make a move.

Sam seems to be on his page, or somewhere near it, because while he pauses the kiss to let his lips linger along Dean's throat, his hands don't wander. It's like there's a line in the sand, and even though it's doomed to wash away with the next tide, they'll both hold back for now.

But meanwhile, Sam's _mouth_ is at his _throat_ , and Dean's pretty sure his brother is trying to drive him right out of his mind. He's already mapped out Dean's secretest triggers, and right now his tongue is playing along that spot just behind Dean's ear.

"Okay," Dean interrupts. It's abrupt, a little bit awkward, but Sam lets him draw back far enough for eye contact. "Okay," Dean says again, softer this time, and Sam's eyes are warm with comprehension.

They're both breathing embarrassingly hard, fast rise and fall of chest against chest, and they stare at each other. Mutual awe, maybe disbelief. Sam raises a hand to cup Dean's face, and this time Dean doesn't think about how it makes him feel like a girl.

He's too busy drowning in the moment, and when he leans forward and wraps his arms tight around his brother, the movement catches them both off guard. It's too desperate for a hug, face buried in the side of Sam's neck, but Sam returns the gesture a second later. They both cling long and hard, and Dean doesn't really care what comes next.

"We really gonna be okay?" he finally asks, shell of Sam's ear against his lips.

"Yeah," says Sam, and Dean can tell he means it.

 

-||-|FIN|-||-


End file.
